It began as nothing, just the brush of her hand against his arm as though adjusting her balance. But instead of pulling away, her hand lingered, slowly tracing down the fabric of his sleeve. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, every inch a choice. He felt the anticipation tighten in his chest with each passing second, wondering just how far she would go.
When her hand reached his wrist, she didn’t stop. Her touch slid lower, fingers grazing his skin, until finally they reached his own. She paused there, the silence between them thick with suggestion. Her fingertips brushed lightly across his knuckles, a subtle claim that felt more binding than any grasp. He swallowed hard, the small contact sending a ripple of heat through his body.
Then, almost playfully, she let her hand overlap his. Not gripping, not holding—just resting there, close enough that he could feel every shift, every twitch. It was a quiet dare, an invitation wrapped in innocence. And though he could have moved his hand away, he didn’t. Her touch had anchored him, and he realized he was waiting—hoping—for her next move.